After All

by McLaughlin, Heidi

  Bowie focused on the woman across from him. The words she spoke used to be the adage of the inn. He wanted to ask her why she’d closed, but deep down he knew. Her son had died, taking away what life she had left. But still the question plagued him, why now? Not that he wanted to ask because right now meant he had a job, one that would pay him well and put him back on the map.

  He cleared his throat, tapped his pen against his notebook, and said, “These are all easy fixes.” That was his attempt at trying to steer the conversation back toward the repairs. “How many rooms again?”

  “Forty. All in need of some care.”

  “Okay, and the timeline?”

  There was a loud bang upstairs, and Carly turned herself toward it slightly, barely looking over her shoulder. Bowie saw Simone rush by and head up the stairs, her steps echoing loudly in the all-too-quiet house.

  On instinct, he stood. He could hear muffled voices. “Does some . . . someone need help?” he stammered.

  Carly shook her head. “I’d like the project done as soon as possible. I have a renovator you will work with. She knows my vision and what I want.” She pushed a magazine across the table, leaving him no choice but to sit back down. Still, his eyes roamed. He surveyed the open expanse where the staircase was, and the area where footsteps now echoed. He hadn’t heard of anyone living with Carly, aside from Simone, not that he would’ve paid attention. His divorce kept him in a fog lately, and anytime someone mentioned the inn or Carly, he ignored the comments out of guilt.

  He opened the magazine to the flagged locations and saw what design ideas she had in mind. He would need to measure the rooms, order the lumber, paint, and new fixtures. “I see someone has spent some time watching HGTV?” He laughed as he continued to flip through the pages of room after room with shiplap covering the walls. The wood was easy to work with, even easier to paint.

  “It seems popular.”

  “It is. What can you tell me about the renovator?” It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to work with someone. In fact, he liked it a bit better than following architecture plans. In his experience, renovators weren’t sticklers for plans and would take suggestions when offered.

  “I was thinking some of the rooms could be gray.”

  “Gray is very popular.”

  “And blue?”

  Bowie scribbled her color suggestions down.

  “And black?”

  His pencil stopped moving across his notepad. He stared at his scribble, trying to comprehend what Carly was saying. She wanted a set of rooms painted black? An accent wall made sense, but full rooms? No, he couldn’t.

  When he finally glanced at her, she bore a sheepish grin. “It’s bold, and the inn has always had this rustic feel. I want to liven it up.”

  “With black?”

  “And I’d like to paint the paneling in the lobby white.”

  “White will make the wood beams pop.”

  “Or we could paint them,” she suggested with a shrug.

  Bowie leaned back in his chair as he recalled the vaulted ceiling in the lobby. Not unheard of, but cumbersome. He would need to bring in scaffolding to paint the ceiling and would need some extra manpower to get it done. Shouldn’t be a problem. Worst-case scenario, he could hire day laborers from the next town over. What he couldn’t put his finger on was why the drastic changes, and why so sudden? Especially after all these years.

  He leaned forward, clasping his hands. “I know I haven’t been around for—”

  “Fifteen years,” she interrupted somberly. “Time doesn’t matter, Bowie. It’s water under the bridge. Even if you had stopped by, I don’t know if I would’ve welcomed your company. It’s taken years for me to come to terms with the loss of my son, and now I have, I need to move on with my life.”

  “And reopening the inn is your idea of moving on? Why not just sell it?”

  Carly spread her arms out. “This is my home. It was Austin’s home. It’s where . . .” She paused and seemed deep in thought. “Where would I go?”

  “There are a few of those retirement places around. You could play cards all day.”

  “And give up my view? I’m not ready.”

  Bowie could respect that. Retirement homes weren’t for everyone. He couldn’t blame her, honestly. The view the inn had was spectacular. It was what drew people to stay here. He knew once she announced the inn was open again, the town would flourish with tourism. This was exactly what this sleepy little town needed, and maybe more opportunities would arise for him.

  “Tell me about your wife.”

  “Um . . .” Her request caught him off guard. He was unprepared to discuss Rachel and truthfully didn’t want to.

  “Simone says she’s lovely.”

  “Simone? But not you?” He already knew what her answer would be before she said it. Carly hadn’t left the house since Austin’s funeral, and if she had, he hadn’t heard about it. Surely, people would talk. Years ago, he would look for her at the market or pier, hoping she would show up for the annual celebration Austin’s friends held for him, but she never did.

  “Do you have children?” she asked, ignoring his question completely.

  He would not get the answers he sought. “Rachel and I are going through a divorce, and no, we don’t have any children. I . . .” He paused and scanned his notes; the words were nothing more than a blur. If this had been fifteen years ago or if he had been a man and stayed connected with Carly, he’d have no issues telling her his problems. But this was now—he was embarrassed and didn’t want to talk about life.

  He couldn’t take any more awkwardness; it was time to leave. He closed his notebook, placed it back onto his clipboard, and slipped his pencil into the front pocket of his shirt. “I have to go,” he said, pushing away from the table. He showed himself out, slamming the door behind him in frustration.

  “So stupid,” he muttered to himself as he stalked toward his truck. He threw his clipboard onto the passenger seat and got a wet, sloppy kiss from Luke spread across his face. He nuzzled his dog, feeling somewhat calmer in his presence.

  FIVE

  Brooklyn felt so out of place in the grocery store; the trucker hat she was wearing was pulled down as far as possible, and dark sunglasses masked her blue eyes, likely making people assume she had a hangover. As she passed by the other customers, she couldn’t help but stare, trying to figure out if she knew them or whether they recognized her. There was one time in her life when popularity had ruled, where she’d been the “it” girl because of who she’d dated. Everyone had known her, and everyone had wanted to be her friend. The truth was, she was hiding from the people around her and from herself. Ever since she’d woken up this morning in the strange yet familiar carriage house of the Woodses, she’d questioned why she was really here.

  The obvious answer was for Carly, of course. Since the day she’d left, she’d vowed to never return. She wasn’t from here, technically, and her parents had moved back to Seattle a year after she graduated high school. There wasn’t a need or even a desire to stay connected with any of her friends. She had long shut the door on everything that had to do with Cape Harbor. Everything except for Carly—still, their relationship was mostly based on random phone calls that centered on Brystol and Brooklyn making sure her daughter spent time here each summer. Carly was the only reason Brooklyn would ever come back, even if she hadn’t wanted to.

  She pushed her cart up and down each aisle, marking off each item on Simone’s list as she went along. Simone was going to feed the crew working on the inn. Carly had insisted upon it last night when the three of them finally sat down and started drawing up plans for the remodel. Brooklyn knew it was Simone’s idea to reopen the inn. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out that Carly had been living the life of a recluse, and she mentally kicked herself for not figuring it out sooner. Conversations she’d had with Brystol over the years played on repeat in her mind, as she searched for signs that Brooklyn should’ve picked up on indicating Carl
y needed help. Nothing stood out. And she’d never thought to ask her daughter if her vivacious grandmother had turned into an eccentric homebody. Brystol wouldn’t have known the difference, and that made Brooklyn sad. Back in the day, Carly Woods was a sight to behold. A standout beauty among others, and the life of the party.

  Brooklyn carried a tray of flutes filled with champagne around the crowded room. Everywhere she looked, women were dressed in glamorous ball gowns while the men were in tuxedos, chatting happily and looking more beautiful than Brooklyn could even imagine. After Carly had asked her and Monroe if they would fill in as servers for the annual Tulip Gala, a yearly fundraiser hosted by Carly and Skip Woods, Brooklyn found herself imagining what it would be like to attend the event as a guest. Her dress would be a full ball gown, in baby blue, with tiny diamonds sewn over the tulle covering. She would wear her hair up, in a braided bun, and a tiara, and when she would spin in a circle under the crystal chandelier, her dress would sparkle. Someday, she had thought to herself. Until her moment came, she would do what Carly asked.

  She walked around the room, asking people if they would like a glass of champagne and taking their empty flutes if they had one. Monroe carried a tray of hors d’oeuvres, and each time Brooklyn passed by, her mouth watered. Bacon-wrapped scallops were her favorite and the only seafood she could stomach. She loved going out on Austin’s boat, and she loved fishing, but couldn’t bring herself to eat it. There was something about the smell that never sat right with her. Carly had tried numerous times, making the sea bass, salmon, and trout many ways, but Brooklyn could never find an acquired taste for seafood. She thought for sure, once Austin figured this out, that he would break up with her since his life revolved around fish, but he’d told her it didn’t bother him if it didn’t bother her.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Woods, may I offer you a refill?” Brooklyn stopped at Austin’s parents and held her tray out and smiled. Carly was dressed in a red gown with a massive diamond necklace resting at the top of her dress. She was beautiful. Skip was an older version of Austin, dressed in a tuxedo. While Brooklyn and Monroe worked the inside, Austin, Graham, Grady, and Bowie were outside parking cars as the valets, and later the teens would help clean up. They were always helping Carly.

  “Oh, Brooklyn, let me introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Long. Mrs. Long is on the committee with me. I shared some of your ideas for the tulip festival with her, and she loved them. Theresa, this lovely young woman is Brooklyn Hewett.”

  Brooklyn steadied her silver serving tray and shook Mrs. Long’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “You too. Carly speaks very highly of you.”

  Brooklyn blushed. She’d had no idea Carly was sharing her ideas with anyone but was happy to know that Carly thought highly of her. “It was nice meeting you.” She was unsure what to say after a compliment like that.

  Throughout the night, Brooklyn served food, brought fresh drinks, and cleaned empty plates away. When the auction started, she stood off to the side and watched as the roomful of people threw money at Carly. By the end, the fundraising total exceeded their expectations.

  It wasn’t long after the Tulip Gala that Skip passed away from a massive heart attack while at sea, and when he did, a little of Carly’s spirit slipped away, but she was steadfast, making sure Austin and his friends only saw her smile. Austin was her light, her pride and joy, and when he died, it seemed that his mother went with him.

  Carly had mere months to come out of her funk, especially if she wanted the inn to return to what it used to be: a staple of Cape Harbor and Skagit Valley. It was the awe-inspiring place where everyone loved to visit, even the locals. Once word got around that the inn was going to reopen, which in a small town like Cape Harbor wouldn’t take long, Brooklyn expected companies to jump at the opportunity to host their holiday parties in the ballroom and to book their out-of-town guests to stay. She could see it now, the inn decorated for Christmas with thousands of white lights outlining the peaks and eaves of the building, and on the inside, trees of all sizes in the rooms guests would frequent, each styled differently. When she was a teen, she’d loved spending hours helping the staff give each tree its own identity. It was always the tree in the ballroom that would get the most attention. Hours upon hours, staff would spend decorating it with many strings of lights and bulbs. The topper was always a star to match the night sky. One time, Austin sneaked her into the ballroom to see the tree. On that night, the moon was low and beaming through the large windows. When he turned the lights on, everything sparkled. It was an image she would never forget. It had been years since she’d seen something so beautiful, and memories like that made her want to help bring back the prestige the inn’s name once held. One thing Brooklyn wasn’t sure of was whether the kitchen was going to open back up.

  The real problem was she didn’t know Carly’s full plans. Last night, they only went over the remodel for the rooms and common areas, nothing more. It had been late by the time they finally sat down to discuss Carly’s intentions for the inn. The new design was modern, and straight off one of those television makeover shows that Simone fussed about. She said the inn needed character, something special to make it stand out from the others because no one wanted to leave their home only to travel and stay in a place that was similar. The inn was supposed to be a getaway, a retreat from reality. Brooklyn agreed, but Carly held fast and strong to her concept. She loved the newer, fashionable look, and she was, as she reminded both women, the owner.

  Brooklyn had yet to venture into the kitchen to see the state of the equipment, almost fearful of the ancient appliances and to see the repairs the galley would need. No doubt everything would need replacing, and she wasn’t sure the funds were there, at least not until the inn started pulling in a steady income. The two went hand in hand. It was going to be hard to open the inn and not offer the full-service menu customers had grown accustomed to. Carly had long since let her staff go and shut everything down. Brooklyn wasn’t even sure if she should broach the subject with Carly or ask Simone, who seemed to have a tighter grasp on what needed done around the inn.

  “Brooklyn?”

  She froze at the sound of her name. She was facing the cans of condensed soup and thought briefly about ignoring the person to her left. How could anyone recognize her? Her hair was longer than it was the last time she was here and back to its naturally dark color. Her hat sat so low she had to tilt her head back to look at items higher on the shelf, causing her neck to strain. She’d kept her head down since arriving and hadn’t spoken to anyone. And no one outside of her family knew she was here, which was how she intended to keep things. In and out, like every other job she did.

  “Brooklyn Hewett, is that you?”

  The woman wasn’t giving up, leaving Brooklyn two choices: ignore her and move on or confront the person blowing her cover. Unfortunately, she made the decision when she turned her head slightly to see who was blocking her cart. Monroe Whitfield stood there with her long strawberry-blonde hair styled impeccably in a ponytail, her floral dress fitting like a glove, and the most perfect smile she could muster. She’d seen her yesterday, standing on the street corner and looking radiant, just as she was now. Brooklyn averted her eyes, looking down at the yoga pants she had on. Her muddy shoes had likely left a trail behind her as she walked through the store, and her sweatshirt had holes and paint stains all over it. She was dressed like a slob. More so, she felt like one.

  “It’s me, Monroe.”

  There was a hint of desperation in her voice, forcing Brooklyn to react. She wanted to run, to leave her cart behind and go back to the sanctuary at the inn or at least in her SUV. But even she knew that slipping in and out of town was going to be a challenge despite her hopes otherwise; Rennie had told her as much. She set the can of soup she was holding back onto the shelf and turned fully to give Monroe, the woman she’d once considered to be one of her best friends, her full attention.

  “Of course, I remember you,” she said, pasti
ng on a smile. “I’m sorry—I’m just caught off guard; I didn’t expect anyone to recognize me.” Brooklyn slipped her sunglasses off, then set them in her purse.

  Roe, as Brooklyn used to call her, was the second person she’d met after starting at Cape Harbor High and they had most of their classes together. They became fast friends and confidantes. Roe’s sister, Mila, had been an aspiring actress at one time, something that Monroe hated but still had encouraged her sister to fulfill her dreams. The Whitfield sisters were as thick as thieves, and at the time Brooklyn considered herself lucky to be in their fold. It took only days for Brooklyn and Monroe to become best friends. When she wasn’t with Austin, Brooklyn was with Monroe, and sometimes Mila. They would spend hours gossiping about everyone. Monroe regularly complained about her parents and how they treated her and her sister differently, often feeling they favored Mila because she was “going places.” Weekends were spent on the beach, at the lake, and dancing in the back of Austin’s pickup truck to music from the ’70s and ’80s. Plans were made for after graduation. Mock weddings discussed, with Brooklyn marrying Austin and Roe marrying one of the Chamberlain twins. It hadn’t mattered which one, as both were equally hot. It was Monroe who had known Brooklyn’s deepest and darkest secrets, and likely the reason she had left town when she did.

  “I love this song,” Roe yelled as she turned the dial up on the portable radio. She reached for Brooklyn’s hand and pulled her to her feet. They danced, swaying their hips back and forth, throwing their hands up in the air. The truck rocked wildly, causing the girls to laugh.

  “You’re going to bust my truck,” Austin hollered through laughter. They were stopped at some pond, trying to beat the late-summer heat. All summer, the gang would explore the area, finding ponds, rivers, and campgrounds to hang out in. At night, they would converge on the beach for a bonfire. Those nights were Brooklyn’s favorite. She loved sitting with her back pressed against Austin’s chest, his legs holding her close. She was ridiculously in love with him.